


In the grand deeds of great men

by targaryen_melodrama



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluffy, I think? what even are tags, London Era (Black Sails), M/M, POV Captain Flint | James McGraw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29390235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/targaryen_melodrama/pseuds/targaryen_melodrama
Summary: Saturdays, James thinks with mild annoyance, are their day ofrest. Yet somehow he’s woken up much earlier than necessary, brought out of peaceful sleep by the careful, steady turning of pages, which isn’t nearly as loud as Thomas’ thoughts piercing the early morning quiet.“Surely,” James says after clearing his throat, stretching to peek at the cover page of Thomas’ volume, “Greek tragedies can wait until the sun has properly risen?”
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	In the grand deeds of great men

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'ed, feel free to point out typos etc

Saturdays are their day of rest. 

For six tedious days, their lives are dedicated to duty, decorum and pretense for the Crown and the Church alike. And with the storm currently brewing in New Providence, free evenings are becoming rarer than oases in the desert, and not nearly as satisfying.

Saturdays, James thinks with mild annoyance, are their day of _rest_. Yet somehow he’s woken up much earlier than necessary, brought out of peaceful sleep by the careful, steady turning of pages, which isn’t nearly as loud as Thomas’ thoughts piercing the early morning quiet.

“Surely,” James says after clearing his throat, stretching to peek at the cover page of Thomas’ volume, “Greek tragedies can wait until the sun has properly risen?”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry, darling, it’s just—”

“Tottenham again?”

Thomas sighs as he folds the corner of a worn page, leaning back against their headboard. “I know I said I would stop engaging with him on litterature.” He goes quiet without further justification or comment as to what poor literary analysis from Tottenham could’ve brought him here, frowning down at a book by candlelight, expression partly confusion, but mostly frustration. _Discontent_ may be the better term, James realizes as he takes in the deep creases on Thomas’ forehead, the slight downturn of his mouth. 

Well. No chance of going back to sleep now. James wipes the sleep from his eyes, slowly sits up. “What was it this time?”

“Achilles and his… _devoted friend_ Patroclus.” Thomas’ finger taps idly at the cover as he gathers his thoughts. “It isn’t…it isn’t that I don’t understand why their relationship is portrayed as purely platonic. If anyone were to suggest otherwise, well—the clergy, at the very least, would… _protest_.” His lips turn down further at the understatement. “God forbid their ideas of Man and family and propriety be challenged.”

James lets out a quiet hum. “The whole of England might collapse. But…?” he prompts when Thomas stays quiet.

“But...so much of the story of Achilles is lost, then. His love—and grief—for Patroclus is such a significant part of what humanises him, of what sets him apart from other heroes. It’s—for God’s sake, it’s the very first line of the poem.” Said poem is dropped on his bedside table alongside a heavy sigh. “‘ _Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus’_ —tales of his anger have been told and retold for some 1500 years, and yet what the wrath ‘ _that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans’_ was born of is...an afterthought.” Thomas’ voice is low from disuse, though no less expressive, and his eyes grow brighter with every word. Had he not been busy defending the honour of mythical men brought to life by long-dead poets, Thomas would notice James’ weak attempt at holding back a smile.

“Is a story not much more compelling that way? More meaningful? Is Achilles not cast in a wholly different light as a man who made the gods tremble because his heart had been broken beyond repair? _No_ , _of course_ not. Better to flatten the story’s layers and remove its depth, to reduce their love to a—what was the phrase he used? Ah, _yes_ —a ‘deep friendship, typical of those forged in battle’. A shame. A terrible shame.”

“I think,” James says after a moment, laying a hand on Thomas’ forearm, “you put forth excellent points, love.”

Thomas blows out a short breath. “Thank you.”

“I _also_ think your assessment of the situation might be...biased.”

“Biased?”

“For one, you cannot stand Tottenham.” 

Thomas turns to face James, amusement further brightening his gaze. “A hundred pounds if you find a man in the British Isles who can.”

“For two, I think it’s, ah, easy for you to conceive of their relationship in that way. Considering they would share, our, well, our...predilection.”

“James. Are you...are you implying what I think you’re implying?”

“Oh, I’m not _implying_ anything.”

It’s too much, too early—James bursts out laughing at the look of indignation on Thomas’ face.

“Unbelievable. I am making an argument based on _material_ historical findings and _centuries_ of analysis—”

“Yes, yes you are, love, and your argument is a sound one. I’m only saying that it’s obvious that you, of all people, would focus there. Aside from our...predilection, you have an exceptional ability to see love and offer compassion where others do not and would not.” 

An ability that had them both awake at sunrise discussing _literature_ , in their _bed_ , on their day of _rest_.

“Trying to charm me out of my anger will not work, James.” James—quite kindly, he thinks—does not point out that the pink tainting his cheeks tells another story. “My point stands. In fact, I think Achilles himself would agree with me,” Thomas says, startling another laugh out of James.

“Would he now?”

“Yes,” Thomas says after pinching his forearm. His thumb immediately soothes the skin he’d pinched, slowly drawing wide arches. “I think he would.”

“Well, for what my opinion is worth, I don’t believe you’re wrong, about any of it. Putting your dislike of Tottenham aside, I only meant to say I wasn’t surprised you found the _Iliad_ 's heart to reside…there.”

Thomas frowns. “It’s not that I don’t see the whole of the story for what it is, it’s...well, it’s as you said.” The frown leaves his face as quickly as it came, replaced by a small smile. “It’s where I think the story comes alive. Where it makes its way down to us plain mortals. Do you not?” 

“Partly, yes. I—I liked it well enough, when I first read it. Hubris and the idea of defying fate were interesting, obviously, but those ideas alone hadn’t quite captured my attention. The story hadn’t ‘come alive’ yet, for me. ” 

“Of course not. You hadn’t been aware of our predilection, then.”

For the third time this morning, James loses a fight against a grin. “Right. After my second reading, I thought the story’s appeal, the reason for its longevity—aside from Achilles’ incredible prowess, of course—was in the idea that there is no reward in seeking glory. The Tottenhams of this world would leave it at that, I think...though I’m not sure that quite fits with what little we know of the Greeks. But reading it again with Miranda’s club last fall, what struck me was that the cost of being remembered is so much more than anyone ever bargains for. Legacy _demands_ sacrifice, it seems. Achilles doesn’t only lose the chance of returning to his home in exchange for glory, he loses his lover in the process—a loss which then, as you said, drives the anger he is famous for. The price of having a name draw fear, hatred—anything at all, really, is incredible adversity.”

“That is…suitably tragic, I suppose.”

“Yes,” James concedes with a tilt of his head, “but also inevitable. I don’t see how it would be possible to leave such a mark on the world without the world similarly marking you first.”

“It is much too early, I think,” Thomas says, reaching for James’ palm and laying a kiss at its center, “for you to sink into such melancholy.”

“I would not be sinking into anything but deeper sleep had you saved your stewing for more godly hours. And,” James adds because there is a hint of a frown on Thomas’ forehead, “not to worry. I’m not sinking into anything.” 

“No?”

“Not at all. These are lessons for men with much grander designs than mine.”

With his usual overwhelming sincerity, Thomas guides James back into a lying position and places a kiss on the crown of his hair. “Alright, then. Good.”

James had only meant the words to convey reassurance—Thomas worries much too easily when it comes to James, and any allusion to the ghosts that haunted him before he’d found Thomas and Miranda. But his words ring as true now, echoing in his mind, as they did when he first spoke them. 

He hadn’t been born into much. Not much wealth, not much poverty; not much love and not much sorrow. It had become easier every day since he had met them to believe that this, here, could be a life, could be _his_ life: a steadier position in the Navy, a discreet place in view of the negotiating table, eyes and ears sharp where Thomas’ wouldn’t be. Something dangerously close to a home here, in a warm bed next to a brilliant man, being welcomed without question or hesitation. Without conditions. 

James doesn’t catch Thomas blowing out their candles, only notices his hair is haloed, all of a sudden, by the rising sun, and decides to close his eyes. It’s a lovely vision to fall asleep to. 

Or, it would’ve been. 

“And what about us?” Thomas asks quietly. His hand settles, as it usually does in the evenings, into James’ hair. 

James opens his eyes. “What _about_ us?”

“We aren’t seeking glory or fortune. The fates have already spoiled me rotten, bringing us together. And, tell me if you disagree, dear—”

“You know I will.”

“—but our love is the furthest thing from a tragedy. How, then, will our tale be told?” 

James snorts inelegantly and makes up for it by kissing Thomas’ fingers. “It won’t be, and you know that. Though—the proposal you’re drafting might inspire tales of your great mind and sharp wit.”

“And of your shameless flattery, I’m sure.”

“I have no clue what you’re referring to, Thomas.” James closes his eyes once more but cannot, for the life of him, contain his smile. “D’you hear that, love? I think I hear...a bard? _Sing, o Goddess, of the great deeds of Lord Thomas Hamilton/whose wisdom rivalled Athena’s and whose beauty made jealous the sun.”_

Thomas muffles his laughter in James’ hair, his stomach gently shaking against James’ side.

“To think,” he says after a final chuckle, “there was a time you couldn’t touch my hand without flushing red as your hair.”

“The only thing that is constant,” James says through a yawn, “is change.”

“Oh dear, I think that’s quite enough classics for the day, hmm?”

James hums his agreement, letting his hand rest over Thomas’ heart, and letting sorrow and grief rest amidst old tales, where they belong. 

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of cheated - the version of the Iliad Thomas is quoting was published the century after Black Sails is set, but it's the one I liked best, so I used it. Same goes with "material findings" - I'm pretty sure a lot of the material findings about Ancient Greece happened in the 19th century? I'm not sure, but I prioritized homosexuality over historical accuracy, which is ~~what Black Sails is about~~ the right thing to do here i think. 
> 
> Title is from All this and Heaven too, by Florence and the Machine.
> 
> I am on [Tumblr](http://targaryenmelodrama.tumblr.com)!


End file.
